Stainless
by Ibbonray
Summary: "Surprisingly, even after everything, I feel innocent. Stainless." Series of one hundred-word drabbles written for Caesar's Palace's "Silver Challenge." All fifteen prompts included. Enobaria-centric.


Stainless

**i. Precocious**

_Precocious you are_  
_Headstrong you are_  
_Terrified you are_  
_Ahead of your time, you are_  
_-UR, Alanis Morissette_

Her knives whirl through the air, puncturing taut fabric and embedding themselves in straw. The band on her wrist glints in the dappled sunlight. It is gold, signifying her triumphs. Signifying her eligibility.

She is precocious, in a sense, having mastered knives before those of her age even touched their first weapons. Then again, she's always been special. She's always been more deserving of attention than they. It's what she wants: attention. And Enobaria has a knack for attracting attention.

Somewhere, she's terrified. Attention can do that to a person.

But her pride quenches all emotion.

**ii. Querulous**

_Where the workers stand in querulous rows awaiting dislocation_  
_I'll be there too_  
_-Babies Falling, The Magnetic Fields_

"Why do I have to go, Mommy?" The young boy whines, his tone querulous. The boy's mother shakes her head, pressing her palm to the boy's mouth.

Enobaria is suddenly furious with the boy's inquiry- irate that anyone in Two, even juveniles, would put their district pride to shame. Besides, she wants the entirety of the population to watch her mount the stage, calling out the required words, letting her golden bracelet reflect off of the sunlight. She wants them to witness her glory; to know that she is there for personal purposes instead of meeting requirements.

**iii. Opulent**

_We have spent our time_  
_Drenched in opulent splendour_  
_But when midnight chimes_  
_Will gilded souls surrender?_  
_-Absinthe With Faust, Cradle of Filth_

She gazes at the plush, amethyst-coloured reclining chairs, the dazzling chandeliers, the numerous dresses in her wardrobe, and the variety of desserts she cannot eat. Watches the Avoxes, confined to life-long servitude. The extravagancy is almost too opulent, even for her particular taste. Of course she enjoys it- it's obligated for tributes to consider the Capitol as a utopia- but she's already tired of it all, even after nearly a week.

For the first time, she's begun to doubt her decisions. She's not sure if volunteering was worth it.

She'll know, come tomorrow.

**iv. Rancorous**

_Scurrilous, widespread death_  
_Punitive, stagnant mess_  
_Rancorous killing spree_  
_Punishing massacre_  
_-Systematic Elimination, Cannibal Corpse_

She shouldn't be rancorous. She shouldn't have anything against them. And yet she's killed two before the gong even rings, with the assistance of the Gamemakers' well-placed bombs. And yet she snatches up the knives, obviously placed there to encourage her temptation, and skewers three more. Quickly. Methodically. Rancorously, of all things. As if these children were treasonous Peacekeepers lined up for execution.

Harsh, she knows, but her thoughts have been strategically placed to restrict pity.

"Got 'em all, boss." Enobaria's allies all but worship her.

"The dead?"

"Tally to fourteen."

Her expression is stoic.

**v. Benevolent**

_So we breach one more soul, toss them out on the dole_  
_Our shroud of indifference belies our benevolent tones_  
_-Tell Me Why, Good Riddance_

"You don't control me," is the girl's last whisper, and then a cannon booms, leaving her eyes frozen in place, experiencing a realm far away from reality. Pale fingers drift over the girl's eyelids, shutting them in the only act of regret the murderer can achieve.

"Let's go," Enobaria drawls, standing up and moving out, her apparent indifference excluding her true thoughts. She doesn't kill for joy anymore. Not that she has benevolent intentions- homicide is not fueled by benevolent intentions- but now, her knife breaks skin out of necessity. It's that, or die.

**vi. Asylum**

_In asylum's cage, I'm left alone_  
_-I'm Alive, Blind Guardian_

Contrary to popular belief, Enobaria hates the taste of blood. Also contrary to popular belief, she's never considered ripping out a man's throat with her teeth before. But as she feels the flesh give away beneath her canines, she knows they'll mistaken her as a vampire from here on out.

She's also sure they're going to shove her into an asylum and hold her there for the rest of her days after this, but honestly, she wouldn't mind much. An asylum would be so much better than here.

A cannon booms. She is alone.

**vii. Parched**

_And the twisted seeds of doubt_  
_Which spread my sins about_  
_Lie parched and withered_  
_-Thought Dream, Country Joe &amp; the Fish_

She wakes to cracked lips, gnawing pain in her stomach, and an apathetic Brutus at the foot of her bed. "Get me some water. I'm parched."

He hands her a glass. She drains it, and looks expectantly up at him. A flicker of emotion flashes over Brutus' eyes, and then they become petrified once again, stony as granite. "Enobaria," he says, sighing. He's not much older than her. "You have sinned, without a doubt. You have done things unforgivable. But you have done well."

She pictures her doubts as seeds and, mulling over his words, refrains from watering them.

**viii. Mundane**

_All alone, staring on_  
_Watching her life go by_  
_When her days are gray_  
_And her nights are black_  
_Different shades of mundane_  
_-Forgiven Not Forgotten, The Corrs_

Life is mundane- at least, that's Enobaria's standpoint. She spends her days in the Victor's Village, watching Lyme and Brutus spar outside her window while Elisa and her girls walk by. Occasionally, she'll invite Glover over for a laugh, because the old man has a reputation for being unpredictable.

She doesn't go out much. There's nothing to do. It makes her irritable, and although her nature was irritable in the first place, the other Victors tend to avoid her and her snarky remarks.

Life is simply so _tedious._

Until she's reaped once again.

**ix. Comrade**

_Comrade of death_  
_I am comrade of death_  
_-Comrade of Death, Dies Irae_

This next bloodbath dyes the waters around the Cornucopia a crimson red. She lets Seeder's body fall into them unceremoniously, frowning as the woman sinks from sight. She was Enobaria's comrade once, and now she is slain.

No mercy. No mercy. She purses her lips, turning to Brutus, who has strode up behind her. "The sinners are perishing," she tells him.

"And yet in the process," he replies, "we are sinning once again."

A melancholy smile plays at her lips. "Inevitable, isn't it?"

"Afraid so."

She wonders, her smile now wry, if Brutus has a death wish.

**x. Intrepid**

_We're hunting open secrets_  
_We're searching high and low_  
_Intrepid we might be; we'll never know_  
_-On the Verge of Infinity, Edenbridge_

They hunt at night. They sleep during the day. And soon she's unlucky enough to wake up to screaming.

She follows the voices into the darkness, her knives her only means of support, and screams with them. Some are shrill screeches, others deep bellows. All are in recognisable tones: the family she left behind, the friends she had forgotten, the Victors she had loved. And yes- she had loved. She had loved so many. Unfortunately, Enobaria was too proud to show it.

The jabberjays scream and she's trapped with them for eternity. Crying. Shrieking.

No one is intrepid.

**xi. Empathy**

_Empathy washed away_  
_Hard as bone, cold as stone_  
_You shall remain_  
_-Turn, Construcdead_

The doors swing open, the rusty hinges squealing in protest. She leans against cool metal, baring her teeth at the guards, who march in and snap handcuffs over her wrists. They drag her to another empty room, attaching her to the hooks on the wall.

The man enters, his sneer cruel. He draws a knife from his belt. "Enobaria Goldfang," he says calmly, "what do you know about the rebellion?"

"Nothing."

"Liar." The knife sinks into her calf.

She hisses, teeth clenched. "You have no right to do this. I am a Victor."

"And we have no empathy," he says.

**xii. Disdain**

_I have been blinded by the darkness_  
_With no disdain_  
_I have received my punishments_  
_And with no haste_  
_I await them_  
_-Fear, Ra_

Ever since they rescued her from the prison, she's been left alone. And when Enobaria is left alone, she thinks and dreams. It just so happens that her thoughts are plagued with home and her dreams are of Brutus' death, reoccurring like the verse of a song on a broken record player.

She needs to take her mind off these things, so that's how she finds herself knocking on Coin's door. "I want to fight," she announces.

"My dear Enobaria," Coin's lip curls in disdain, "Surely you have better things to do."

But she doesn't.

**xiii. Demagogue**

_I am a demagogue_  
_Born of eternal flaw_  
_Forever just a memory_  
_-Bottom Feeder, Project 86_

She doesn't watch as the arrow pierces the demagogue's forehead, knocking her off the balcony. Chaos ensues, but she doesn't pay attention to those from District Thirteen as they begin to scream about their beloved Alma Coin, her opportune death, and the despicable Katniss Everdeen.

No, she's watching someone else. The demagogue that appealed to the wealthy: President Coriolanus Snow. The man who killed her mentor.

He is laughing. How dare he laugh? She makes her way toward him looks him in the eye.

"I hope you're happy with yourself."

Her knife finds his chest.

**xiv. Conformist**

_Yesterday's rebels have become today's conformists_  
_-Yesterday's Rebels, Moral Crux_

"Look who's playing conformist," Enobaria remarks as she glides into the room.

Paylor doesn't look up from where she sorts papers. She is dressed in a becoming violet pantsuit. "It just so happens," she replies, "that I have a meeting with Harpalus Beaumont scheduled in a half an hour."

"Then why have you called me here?"

"I am inquiring about your choice of occupation. I'd like you to offer you an important position within the government. You are a highly respected figure."

She smiles grimly. "No. I don't deserve their respect."

"Very well then," Paylor sighs.

**xv. Ephemeral**

_Our flames will burn in this ephemeral reality._  
_Like dancing candles closed in upon a mysterious breeze,_  
_Our light will slowly fade_  
_-Forever, Various Artists_

She lies on her deathbed. "Honestly," she tells the doctor, her only friend, "I never thought I'd make it this far."

He nods, but he doesn't really understand. All those who understood are dead.

"But it seems too short," she continues. Her voice is hoarse from coughing. "It all went away so quickly. Life is... ephemeral. Maybe that's the reason why killing those innocent children never bothered me much." She shakes her head. "Surprisingly, even after everything, I feel innocent. Stainless."

"You have let your sins go," he whispers. "You are free."

She smiles. He understands now.


End file.
